


Off the Rails

by RoseHarperMaxwell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adulthood, Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Casual Sex, Dirty Talk, Escapism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forgiveness, Healer Hermione Granger, Loss of Parent(s), Marijuana, Minor Character Death, Minor Neville Longbottom/Blaise Zabini, Personal Growth, Quidditch Player Harry Potter, Romantic Comedy, Self-Destruction, Self-Medication, Writer Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27040708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHarperMaxwell/pseuds/RoseHarperMaxwell
Summary: An adaptation of the movie Trainwreck (Amy Schumer/Bill Hader), featuring Draco in Amy's role. Part of theDramione RomCom Fest💚“Pans.” Draco’s head falls back petulantly. “I can't interview Granger, especially not about how she's healing Potter. Neither of them are going to want to talk to me. Make Creevey do it.”“No, you'll do it. And don't sulk at me, Draco.” Pansy shuts him down immediately, not that he expected to talk her out of it. She gives assignments, not suggestions. “Old Quidditch rivalries. Gryffindor Princess confiding in the Prince of Slytherin, with a side of The Boy Who Lived. You’re the only one for it.” She drops her pen on her notepad with finality. “She’s also fit as hell now. I’d even fuck her, so our readers will be drooling over her. This iseasy,Draco. Don’t fuck it up.”
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 72
Kudos: 290
Collections: Dramione RomCom Fest, dramione to read





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [DramioneRomComFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DramioneRomComFest) collection. 



> **Prompt:**   
>  [Trainwreck (2015)](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt3152624/?ref_=nv_sr_srsg_0)
> 
> This loosely follows the entire movie, although there are some necessary adjustments. A handful of lines are straight from the movie because they’re too good not to use, but I’m sorry to say Draco won’t be performing with the Knicks City Dancers. 
> 
> Thank you so much [ dreamsofdramione ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugggghead/pseuds/dreamsofdramione) for the gorgeous cover! 💚
> 
> Standard disclaimer: nothing is mine, everything belongs to JKR/WB/Universal.

  


_July 2012_

Draco squints, eyes stinging as the sun glares through a crack in the curtains. 

His flat has blinds, not curtains.

_Fuck._ He closes his eyes again. He got too fucked up last night. This is not good.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” A hand curls possessively around his hip from behind. “I wondered when you were going to wake up.” 

Tina? Tonya? Tanya, maybe. He can’t even remember what she looks like, and decides it’s safer not to roll over. He never stays the night. “Hmm. I’m up. Could I have a glass of water?”

The hand slides higher, bedazzled nails crawling up his chest. “Sure.” She plants a smacking kiss between his shoulder blades, and he actively fights off a cringe. “I’m so glad you stayed. I had a really, really good time,” she says. “I feel like we just have, like, this _connection._ Don’t you?”

He clears his throat, mouth dry and cottony. “Marvelous time, yes. Super connected. I’m just...thirsty.”

Last night’s mistake laughs and slips out of bed, walking across the room. “I wasn't sure if you'd still be here when I—”

Draco’s _Obliviate_ catches her mid-sentence, and he’s gone before she makes a confused turn around the room. 

* * *

**Look, my father’s been in Azkaban since the war, and my mother died of a broken heart without him. The Malfoy name is down to me now. There’s really not much left to besmirch, is there?**

* * *

Draco’s almost late for the staff meeting, and he hurriedly fixes a cup of tea with Theo. 

“Again? That’s the second time this month you stayed over. Is she the one?” Theo winks at him. He was at the club last night, and he knows quite well the girl Draco pulled last night is not _the one._ Draco’s not looking for that.

“I didn’t stay over. I passed out. There’s a difference.”

“One of these days you’ll forget to _Obliviate_ them, you slimy bastard.” Theo’s tone is more admiration than admonishment.

Draco holds up a hand and ticks off fingers. “One, I will never forget. Two, I’m doing them a favor—a Muggle one-off might leave them with an STD. Three, same for pregnancy. Thank you, contraceptive charm. Four, we could consider this a demonstration of my enlightenment. Muggle Appreciation, if you will." Theo snorts at this. “And five, if it’s really spectacular, I can even fuck them again without any awkwardness.”

“You’re an evil genius.”

“I’m brilliant. Let’s go, I can’t take Pansy yelling at me this morning.”

Draco drifts during the staff meeting. Pansy Parkinson’s entrepreneurial nature exploited an untapped market: _WINK,_ a wildly popular counterpart to Witch Weekly, produces salacious material for the modern wizard. Draco is grateful he'd had something to do post-war that he hadn’t really needed to think about. Truly, he is. Writing in general is pleasant enough, and generating rubbish for _WINK_ is effortless, if not distinguished. 

He’s in the middle of a doodle when he hears his name. “Draco, I’m putting you on the Granger piece. She’s back on staff at St Mungo’s, but she’s also been working with some very high profile Quidditch players. Namely, Potter. Two-thirds of the Golden Trio will make a popular cover.” Pansy’s eyes gleam at the prospect. “She’s agreed to an interview, and I expect you to finagle a quote or two from him as well.”

“Pans.” Draco’s head falls back petulantly. “I can't interview Granger, especially not about how she's healing Potter. Neither of them are going to want to talk to me. Make Creevey do it.”

“No, you'll do it. And don't sulk at me, Draco.” Pansy shuts him down immediately, not that he expected to talk her out of it. She gives assignments, not suggestions. “Old Quidditch rivalries. Gryffindor Princess confiding in the Prince of Slytherin, with a side of The Boy Who Lived. You’re the only one for it.” She drops her pen on her notepad with finality. “She’s also fit as hell now. I’d even fuck her, so our readers will be drooling over her. This is _easy_ , Draco. Don’t fuck it up.”

* * *

Blaise shows up to help him with his never-ending project of cleaning out the manor. Narcissa died on the third anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, so Draco estimates he’s been chipping away at his birthright for more than a decade now. So many cursed items, too many bad memories, some sentimental treasures—mostly his mother’s—that still make his breath come short with the anguish of missing her. He wants to be rid of it, but getting it to that point feels Sisyphean.

“Neville said he’ll help you with the garden and the greenhouses, whenever you’re ready.” They look out the window at Neville, puttering in the roses. He draws his face unnecessarily close to a leaf, then notices them and waves enthusiastically over his head, as though there’s anyone else around they might be looking at.

“Did he?” Draco loves Blaise, so he tolerates Neville. “That’s grand of him.”

“Yes, it is.” Blaise stares at him pointedly. “He’s not the bumbling first year anymore, you know. He wants you to come over for dinner.” 

Draco’s nose wrinkles before he even realizes it. He focuses on the china in front of him. How many sets did they _have?_ His eyes flicker across everyday gilded pieces, tasteful silver-etched plates, the marbleized green setting his mother had the elves use every Christmas morning.

“You could try to be pleasant to him. Or at least pretend, for my sake.”

Draco’s attention pulls back to Blaise slightly as he shrinks all the sets. None of them could go.

“Neville’s fine, if you feel like settling down to eat dinner at 4:30, discussing your favorite ferns before you kiss each other’s cheek goodnight.” He casts cushioning and protecting charms on each set, levitating them into a box and carefully packing them away. 

The corner of Blaise’s mouth turns up in a wry smile. “You’d be surprised. But please, Draco, share your relationship wisdom with me. Wasn’t Astoria the last witch you dated?”

“Mmm. Witch, yes.” He recalls how he’d laughed when Astoria asked if he ever actually planned on marrying her, apologizing through involuntary giggles when her face fell. _“Sorry,”_ he’d said. _“I’m just really blazed right now.”_ She’d left that night and it had been a relief, to be honest. “I dated Oliver for a bit.”

“He has two kids now. You’re hardly disproving my point.” Blaise spells a label onto the box in elegant script: _All the china in the land._ “Look, if you’re happy fucking your way through all the Muggles you meet, one-off after one-off, good for you, mate. I’m not judging. Live your best life. Just don’t do it to spite your father.”

“Sometimes it’s not a one-off. Not for me, anyway.” Draco deflects, moving on to cutlery, tuning out Blaise’s boring lecture about multiple memory-erasing charms. He’s separating the strawberry forks from the cake forks when Blaise’s voice filters through again.

“—engaged. Are you listening, Draco? I’ve been trying to warm you up to the idea. Neville and I are getting married.”

* * *

Granger, it turns out, has an office at St Mungo’s, as well as one on-site at the Wimbourne Wasps stadium. She’s not officially employed by them, she explains, “but since I’m working with Harry…” Apparently it goes without saying that no expense should be spared for Potter. 

Draco agreed to meet her at St Mungo’s first, and now sits stiffly across the desk from her. Her office is tidy, but packed with enough books that he feels slightly claustrophobic. “So...it’s been some time, hasn’t it?”

Granger pushes away from her desk, leaning back in her chair with a smile. “We don’t have to make small talk, Draco. I forgave you a long time ago when you apologized after the trials, so this needn’t be awkward. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a blank slate.” She actually looks like she means it, and she exudes a relaxed comfortability as she twists her curls, which she seems to have control over now, into a knot on the top of her head. 

Pretending like the past didn’t happen. Draco can work with that. “Okay. Why don’t you tell me about your specialty?”

Hermione describes her time studying as both a Healer and a doctor, and how she’s combined healing abilities with Muggle surgical techniques. “Opening the body up lets me get a much closer look at the problem, and then I can target specific areas and heal them. I’ve made great strides in resolving curse damage to nerves, but it’s also been beneficial for joint and ligament issues due to injury. Bone regrowth doesn’t address the soft tissue that’s worn down over time.”

Notes that will make little sense later are scribbled. “Fascinating. What gave you the idea?”

She’s in the middle of a lengthy diatribe about the shortcomings she witnessed straddling both worlds when a knock comes at the door, and it opens without pause. “Oh, Harry!” she beams. “We were just talking about you.”

They weren’t, but perhaps she’d been getting there.

“Malfoy,” Potter nods at him politely. “Nice to see you. What brings you here?”

“I’m writing an article for _WINK_ about Granger’s star-healing powers.”

“Excellent. No one’s better than Hermione,” says Potter. “Are you coming to the opening game next month?”

“I was just about to ask him.” She raises her brow at Draco in expectant invitation. “What do you say? I could show you the facilities and talk a little more about what I do.” 

Draco will never get used to the earnest sincerity Gryffindors exude. He doesn’t know how to accept it graciously, so instead he asks, “Are you challenging me to a game of catch the snitch, Potter?” 

“You’d probably beat me for once, given my condition at the moment. I’m on the bench until Hermione works her magic. Hard crash in practice last month,” he explains. “My hip hasn’t been right since.”

Draco makes arrangements to attend the game, and says he has to be off. His excuse is that the first meeting is just to compare schedules. Truthfully, his nerves are on edge in such close proximity with these two at the same time.

* * *

It’s saying something that he didn’t stay at St Mungo's as long as possible, given that the other task he needs to accomplish this afternoon is a visit to his father. Azkaban is always unpleasant, but something about visiting the damp grayness of the island prison is worse when the weather’s nice at home. He tries to visit somewhat regularly, though, because he knows his mother would want him to.

Lucius sits in a chair in a visitation room, aged beyond his years but still holding court. He has his most imperious face on, as though they’re in his study and Draco should be most grateful to access the inner sanctum. “Draco. How is the manor?”

Always with the manor first. Status inquiries are made in order of importance. “Good. It’s fine. I was just there with Blaise.”

It deeply rankles Lucius that Draco has a flat of his own. He usually has something to say about it, but he doesn’t press today. “And how is Blaise?”

“Engaged, actually.” His father leans forward, interest piqued. “To Longbottom.”

“Oh.” Lucius’s lip curls in distaste. “Well. Pureblood, at least.”

The offhand reference to blood supremacy grates at Draco even more than usual after his inexplicably gracious meeting with Granger. He leaves as soon as his guilt permits. 

Best to fulfill the usual promise first: check in on the manor again. Draco wanders into his father’s study and takes his feelings out on some crystal peacock figurines with a satisfying, magic-free smash. 

He makes it as far as the Floo before he backtracks, casting a resigned _Reparo._

By the time he gets home, he’s acknowledged that his St Mungo’s visit was much more pleasant than Azkaban, and Granger much better company than his father. There's a susurrus of disloyalty in his mind, a holdover from his upbringing. But some very fine cannabis quiets it. Longbottom’s good for something, at least.

When Draco receives an owl from Granger, inviting him to dinner the following evening to continue their interview, he surprises himself by accepting right away.

* * *

Dinner’s at a restaurant in Muggle London, which could be a test. Draco can’t tell, but it starts off stiffer than he expected. Hermione’s gracious and friendly, but she seems a little nervous. 

“I actually don’t really enjoy working with the Quidditch teams very much. I always saw myself focusing on a bit more meaningful healing.” She sets her fork down and takes a large swallow of wine. “Can you maybe not put that in the article? I probably shouldn’t say that. The athletes are great, really.”

“Hermione Granger is fulfilling her life’s goal of tending to Quidditch stars, got it. I won’t say anything you don’t want.” It’s true. He doesn’t do interviews often, but he’s well-acquainted with the irrational desire to Vanish all copies of something disparaging.

“I’d do anything for Harry, of course. And working with them has helped make a bit more of a name for myself at St Mungo’s, between you and me. Off the record. I get to do more of my research and focus on projects that are important to me if I’m healing the Chosen One.”

“Does he let you call him that? Please tell me he does.” Draco twirls his fork through his linguine. “I’m surprised you’re not in the Ministry. I mean, I’m sure you’re a brilliant Healer. You clearly could’ve done anything you wanted. I just thought you’d be on the fast track to Minister, changing up all the archaic laws, righting the wrongs.”

Hermione stares thoughtfully at her wine for a moment before looking up, considering him. “I thought so too, once. I think I went into medicine to honor my parents. After the war, I was just exhausted, you know? Tired of fighting. And the Ministry—well, you know how it is. It can take a long time to effect change. I needed to do something where I could see the results of my efforts. I think about it sometimes, though, and wonder if I went for short-term gratification over long-term benefits to wizarding society.”

This is suddenly the deepest conversation Draco remembers having with anyone outside his close circle in a long time, and he has no idea why she's confiding in him so easily. “Your parents are…”

“In Australia. They’re happy. Still dentists. There’s never been a safe way to return their memories after so long. I ‘met’ them at a conference once and we exchange Christmas cards. Also off the record, please. You knew about them, I’m guessing?” Draco nods; he’s heard rumors. “I’ve never spoken about it publicly, and I don’t want any misguided attempts to find them or fix them.” She pushes her plate away. “Speaking of parents, I know this is long overdue, but I was sorry to hear about your mother.”

He had been too, when Blaise had found him and sobered him up enough to understand that she was gone. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“Do you want to get a drink, maybe? The whole night would probably have to be off the record, I suppose. But I have a surgery coming up you could watch and we could do some more official questions then.” 

Draco realizes he has basically nothing for his article from the evening, but he’s having a good time. Granger’s so _nice_. It seems she was serious when she said they had a fresh start, and they clearly get on better this time around. Plus, Pansy was right. Granger’s fucking fit. “Yeah, let’s. That sounds good.”

At the bar, Granger sits closer than he expects, and when her knee presses up against his thigh, she doesn’t move away. Neither does he. “I read some of your articles,” she says.

“Did you. As edifying as your Healer journals, I’m sure.” Pansy isn’t exactly having him write highbrow material.

“Mmm,” she makes an affirmative noise as her whisky goes down easily. “Very edifying. I passed the piece about talking your girlfriend into a threesome along to George.”

“I can actually write, you know. I’ve dabbled in some other things. Pansy’s just curating...a certain voice.”

“Can I read something else you’ve written?” She sounds genuinely curious, and Draco’s a bit taken aback. No one has ever asked to read anything that wasn’t for the magazine.

“Sure, Granger.” He feels warm from more than the alcohol, and he gestures to the bartender. “Shall we do shots?”

Draco’s body loosens and so does his tongue. He’s riding a very nice buzz and getting on splendidly with Granger. She shares the details of her breakup with Weasley and he confesses that other than work, he lives and spends most of his time in Muggle London. Organizing a betrothal might have been difficult for his father to accomplish from prison, but hearing that Draco refuses to enter into one seems to please her. She draws the line at answering whether or not anything ever happened between her and Potter, but her flushed cheeks and smirk say enough. Draco feels like he’s been let in on a closely-held secret.

They’re both surprised when the lights go off. She also lives in Muggle London and is too far gone to Apparate, so they walk outside together to catch a taxi.

“This has been a lot of fun,” Granger says. “I wasn’t sure how it would go. But I’ve had a really great time.”

“You coming?” Draco asks, holding the door open for her. 

“Oh, are we—are we sharing a taxi?” 

She gives her address, and looks expectantly at Draco until he tells the driver, “Just one stop, thanks.” 

Granger seems a little dazed, but she rolls with it. “Oh, okay,” she says. “I can show you my flat.” 

She's on the top floor of a tall building, cozy, but with lots of windows and a lovely view. Draco makes himself comfortable while her voice carries from the kitchen, chattering about how long she’s lived there, offering him a drink. 

When she walks into the darkened living room with a glass of water and he has his shirt off already, she stops in her tracks. “Oh, fuck,” she says.

“Yeah, if you want. I mean, we had a nice time, right?” A tiny, sobering-up portion of Draco’s brain wonders if he read a signal wrong. “I thought that’s where this was going. That’s why you invited me back to your place, yeah?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t—” But her eyes focus on his chest, and after a moment’s pause, she lifts a shoulder with an easy smile. “Yeah, actually. What the hell.”

Granger is a good kisser, and Draco sucks at the taste of whisky on her lips. Tugging her down onto the sofa with him, he recognizes the surreality—even through the haze of alcohol—of having a lapful of Hermione Granger. And what a delightful lapful, indeed. He helps lift her dress off over her head, and she glows in the moonlight pouring in through the windows. “Look at you,” he says, palming her breasts. “These are lovely. I didn’t expect this for you, Granger.” 

She throws her head back and laughs. “What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know,” he says, tipsy and honest. “You were just—Granger. Whose knickers I’d never get to see. And now you’re _Granger_ , and oh, fuck. You just Vanished your knickers. This is happening.”

She helps him undo his trousers and strokes him, all practiced wrist and nimble fingers. “Look at _you,”_ she teases. “I didn’t expect this for you, Malfoy.”

“Okay, okay,” he says, panting. “Are you ready? Can I touch you?” This is not going to be his best showing. He’s a bit out of practice fucking anyone he expects to remember him in the morning.

Granger doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, his enthusiasm is contagious. She straddles his hips, and the slick heat that swallows him is dizzyingly pleasurable. She grabs his shoulders for leverage, fucking herself on his cock, an absurdly fond smile on her face. “Fuck, you're so wet. That’s so hot, Granger.”

“Finding you half-stripped out here really did it for me, apparently.” She rolls her hips deliciously in his lap, and he mindlessly thumbs at her clit. “If you don’t get me off like this, I hope you’re prepared to go down on me afterward. It’s very important to establish orgasm equality.”

“What happens if I get you off twice?” This question is completely unnecessary, and he realizes it as soon as the words leave his mouth. Draco is absolutely going to come before she does. He abandons her clit, digging his fingers into her hips instead, because he can’t help thrusting up into her. 

“If you’re not up for another, I guess I’d just have to owe you.”

* * *

They end up in Hermione’s bed, where orgasm equality is established. Draco very much enjoys the quake of her legs on his shoulders, trembling as he licks moaned obscenities out of her. But he almost wishes they’d stayed on the sofa as she curls up against him afterward.

“So,” Draco says, alcohol evaporated and nerves suddenly exposed. “I should go. I bet you start work early.”

“No, you should stay. It’ll be nice.” She hooks her leg over his, one arm slung across his chest: an excellent impression of a barnacle. “Comfortable?”

Draco is still. God, why isn’t she sleeping? Muggles always fall asleep right away. “Not exactly. I’m not really a cuddler.”

“Oh,” she says. She shifts over slightly, a thin margin of mattress visible between them. “Better?”

“A little, yeah.” Silence passes for several moments, as Hermione sighs and wriggles deeper under the covers. Draco stares at the ceiling. “Just—maybe, could you just roll over? I can feel you breathing on my arm and—”

Hermione huffs and rolls over. “Better? Do you not snuggle or just not like to be snuggled? Do you spoon someone else?”

Draco honestly cannot recall the last time he spooned someone, if ever. “No, not really a fan either way. You know, I should just go. You’d probably sleep better by yourself.”

“And ruin this special moment?” She laughs. “Don’t be silly, I can stay on my own side.”

Silence. Near-silence. Draco hears a clock ticking somewhere and it makes his brain itch. “Do you have a fan?”


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione doesn’t take Draco’s disinclination to snuggle personally. She seems to find his quirkiness endearing, and despite the tense night (apparently only uncomfortable on Draco’s part), she kisses him goodbye in the morning and seems genuinely excited for him to watch her perform surgery the following week.

When he observes, squeamishly, through a window into an operating theatre St Mungo’s has set up just for her, he’s impressed. Charmed, even. Hermione hums Muggle songs as she works, occasionally breaking into off-key pieces of chorus. There should be something embarrassing about it, songs so old and well-known even Draco has heard them. _He_ would be embarrassed for someone to hear him singing like that. But she’s joyful and unreserved as she sings discordantly about an uptown girl, a vision of peerless poise over a splayed-open knee. 

She’s scrubbing her hands afterward when she asks, “Do you want to get some dinner?”

“Well.” Draco crosses his arms, unsettled. He knew staying the night was a mistake. “I’m writing this article so we should probably keep things strictly business from here, don’t you think?”

“No. I think we really like each other and we should start dating.” She smiles confidently, warm eyes holding his gaze. Her candor would be disarming, if that sort of thing worked on Draco. 

“What? No, that’s—that’s the opposite of professional.”

“It might be a slight conflict of interest,” she concedes. “But you can disclose it if you need to. I trust you to write an impartial article even if we’re seeing each other.”

“I’m seeing someone else,” he lies. She stares at him, raising a brow. “I’m actually not. That’s not true.”

“Okay. Then let’s go out.”

Blaise’s voice, speaking through his sinuous panther Patronus, spares Draco from making any further excuses. Lucius is hurt, stubbornly refusing treatment from the prison Healers. Before Draco can even form a plan, Hermione’s gripping her bag and his arm, whirling them both away.

* * *

Lucius is bleeding heavily from the scalp by the time they arrive. He won’t provide details about the “incident,” and makes no apology for not allowing himself to be examined by the prison staff. 

Hermione takes charge without hesitation. “Hello, Lucius. I’m a Healer from St Mungo’s. Let’s have a look, shall we?” This must be satisfactory enough for him, or he’s lost a lot of blood and regrets his earlier willfulness. He’s unexpectedly compliant as he sits still for her.

“I wouldn’t think they’d permit you to bring your wand in here, Ms. Granger. Even if you’re _you.”_ His father’s cooperation is even more remarkable given that he recognizes her.

Hermione pulls open her black bag, removing gauze and implements. “You’re probably right. I didn’t ask.” She leans in with a conspiratorial whisper, like they’re old friends. “You’re in luck. I don’t need my wand to set you straight.”

Draco leans against the wall and watches speechlessly as Granger distracts his father with Quidditch conversation. “I work with the Wasps also, you know. I’m taking Draco to see a game next month. Just a bit of a sting, now.” She numbs his scalp, dabbing with the gauze.

Draco’s quick to clarify. “I’m interviewing her for Pansy’s magazine.”

“Yes,” she says. “We’re also seeing each other.” She doesn’t look up from her focused stitches.

“Are you,” Lucius says. 

The calm tone doesn’t fool Draco, and he melts into the wall under his father’s gaze. “We’re not—we’re just figuring some things out.”

“It’s very new,” says Hermione, one corner of her mouth lifting, despite her concentration. “We’ve discovered we’re very compatible. There you are, now. All set.” She steps back, tilting her head. The blood disappears from his scalp suddenly.

Lucius pats his head, gaping at her. “Why on earth did you use those barbaric tools if you’re capable of wandless magic?”

She holds her hands up, wiggling her fingers. “Because I can. And now you have a story to tell.” She winks at him as she packs away her tools. “I can’t be sure more advanced, unauthorized wandless healing spells will hold here. _Tergeo_ is pretty straightforward; no harm done if it didn’t work. But I know those stitches will hold until they dissolve, and by then you should be as good as new.”

She takes Draco’s hand as they leave the prison, and he doesn’t stop her. He’s rattled from seeing his father injured, and suspicious about who was responsible. Lucius’s preference for Hermione’s care seems more likely rooted in self-preservation than open-mindedness. 

Draco’s also beginning to think he has a bit of a competence kink. Her deft treatment of his father, easily navigating both prejudice and injury, sparks an affectionate warmth he’s not used to. And when she claimed him in front of Lucius—it was crazy, honestly, but he has to admit it’s flattering that someone as good as Granger wants to be with him and isn’t ashamed to say so. To his _father,_ Merlin. Draco will surely hear more about that later.

But now, as they Apparate back to the hospital, he’s still a little shaken and he doesn’t want to be alone. There are a lot of reasons it might be a bad idea, but the strange intimacy of the last hour is too compelling to ignore. “Come home with me?” 

She squeezes his hand, and hesitates for just a moment. “Let’s get some dinner.” 

But she smiles when he presses her against the wall, needy and effusive, and opens willingly for his kiss. 

* * *

They have dinner. And they have sex again. Draco’s practically sober, just three glasses of wine. It’s much hotter than the first time. In his own bed, with a fan blowing to cover distracting noises like the sound of someone else breathing, it's not so difficult to share.

She’s incredibly busy, but she fits in time for vaguely interview-related appointments that start off as meals and end up in bed. There’s also a late film at the cinema, where she disillusions them and gives him a decidedly off-the-record blowjob. A month passes before Draco realizes he hasn’t been with anyone else, Muggle or otherwise, since his first meeting with her.

That feeling—the fluttering anxiety and hesitant acceptance of Hermione inserting herself into his life—makes him a bit panicky.

He invites Blaise to the manor again, under the guise of working on the library this time. He doesn’t know why he puts on a pretense, especially in the library. There’s no way he’ll get rid of anything in here without letting Hermione explore it first, excepting particularly dangerous volumes. 

There are just _so many_ books, and Draco’s overwhelmed all over again at the thought of ever packing everything up and moving it anywhere else. He’s not had the grandest time as a Malfoy, it’s true. But he’s always conflicted. The thought of handing the manor over to any other use feels like both a betrayal and a well-deserved middle finger.

Instead of conjuring boxes, he just pours firewhisky for both of them and gets to the point. “I fucked up.”

Blaise contemplates him over his glass; a vision of patience. 

“I like her, Blaise. I kind of...have feelings. And it can’t possibly work, or last. I don’t know how I even let this happen.”

“What are you so afraid of? The fact that she has anything at all to do with you shows she put the past behind her.”

“Maybe for _now._ But what about when we fight? What if she throws it in my face? What if I say something horrible? What if Lucius—”

Blaise sets his glass down and reaches for the bottle. “Who gives a fuck what Lucius thinks? If you like her, don’t let that stop you.”

“I’m not. I’m _not._ But what if he hurts her? This feels like a mistake. I can’t date _Granger._ ” Draco nudges his glass closer so Blaise can refill it. “Everything’s less complicated with Muggles.”

“It’s not less complicated with Muggles. It’s less complicated with meaningless one night stands.” Blaise sighs. “Look, there’s nothing wrong with the life you were living, if it made you happy. You’re young. You don’t have to do what was expected of you. But if you don’t give things a chance with Granger because you think you don’t deserve her—well, let her decide that. Stop worrying about everything that could go wrong. Don’t let your father get in your head.”

* * *

It isn’t the first time Draco’s been to the Wasps stadium, but it is the first time he has a behind-the-scenes tour. The facilities are top of the line; being consistently top in the league brings in the galleons, it seems. Draco’s past his professional Quidditch player aspirations. But he is impressed by the performance center and rehabilitation facilities. And seeing Granger in action sparks that flame of lust he feels from watching her be so damn good at what she does. The one that makes him want to pin her against the nearest surface, teasing at her authoritative composure until she's wrecked and begging.

He’s sandwiched between her and Potter in the team box when she asks him to go on an official, public date for the first time.

“I have something coming up in October. The Ministry’s hosting a benefit for St Mungo’s, with a presentation about the medical integration I’m trying to expand. I have to give a speech.” She makes a face, as though the entire wizarding world won’t eat up her words and open their pockets. “Be my date?”

Draco’s not keen on the idea of hobnobbing at a Ministry benefit, but she looks a little nervous about the whole thing. Or maybe worried that he’ll say no. Uncertainty seems out of place on her. “Sure,” he says. 

She beams at him, running a pleased hand over his thigh until the head coach beckons her toward the locker rooms, where a player is limping. “I’ll be right back. Keep him company, Harry?”

Draco finds himself suddenly very alone with Harry Potter, in a professional Quidditch stadium, while Hermione Granger (who might be his girlfriend) tends to professional Quidditch stars. The announcer mentions Potter during the timeout, and he stands to wave at the crowd before sitting back down. Draco imagines his 11-year-old self would find this situation almost as bizarre as he does at 32.

“So,” says Potter, like he’s been waiting for an opening. “What are your intentions with Hermione?”

Oh, Merlin fuck. “Intentions?”

Potter watches his teammates soaring over the stadium. “What’s your plan with my best friend? Are you serious about her?”

“I, uh, don’t really have a plan. It’s just been—just been about six weeks, just spending time together. Working on the article.” Draco’s palms are sweating. He should have anticipated this conversation, but he has little experience with relationships that last this long, and none with garnering the approval of Gryffindor best friends.

“Is she the first thing you think about when you wake up in the morning?”

Draco just stares at him. He can't begin to put words together to respond to Potter's ambush.

“You’re not trying to trap her, are you? Using her to get an heir?”

“What? Of course not.” Draco is more shocked than indignant. “I don’t even know if I want children. That’s not—it’s not something we’ve talked about.”

“Hmm.” Potter seems unconvinced. His eyes follow the reserve Seeker, his temporary replacement, basking in her moment of glory under the mid-August sun. 

Draco’s never been more relieved to see Hermione when she emerges from the locker room. Potter sees her too, and makes the most of the time they have left alone.

“I really have to ask you a question.” Draco waits in gut-clenching anticipation until Potter turns to look at him. “Don’t hurt her.” 

Potter’s posture is relaxed, but his sudden, intense gaze is meant to intimidate. Draco is speechless again.

Hermione reaches them, taking in their body language warily. “Everything okay?”

Potter laughs. “Of course, ‘Mione.” But when she’s not looking, Potter leans in and whispers, “The Minister and the Head Auror are my other best friends. Watch yourself, Malfoy.” Then he claps him on the shoulder, smiles broadly, and ambles off toward the coach.

* * *

Despite the threatening best friend, their own unpleasant history, and his inexperience with healthy relationships, Draco lets himself fall for her. Hard. He’s having fun with Granger, and the slide into domesticity feels effortless. 

They go for walks in her favorite park and one time, he brings a fucking picnic. He shows her the manor library, distracting her long enough to deliver a toe-curling orgasm between the stacks. The scent and proximity of thousands of rare, ancient books apparently heightens all her senses, which he finds weirdly endearing. They haven’t spelled it out in so many words, but Draco thinks it’s heavily implied they’re seeing each other exclusively: she’s got a toothbrush at his flat. 

She even asks to accompany him on another visit to Lucius, and he swears his father cracks a smile at one of her jokes. He’s prickly, but he acknowledges her and continues to call her “Ms. Granger,” which is certainly preferable to the other m-word he’s used in the past. Draco tries not to be affected by this visit, though he can’t help but wonder if he’s stumbled across a reality where he can have Hermione Granger _and_ make his father proud.

The next time he visits Lucius, he’s alone. Hermione has a work obligation, and Draco certainly doesn't want her to feel like she has to come along every time. He doesn't really want to make the trips himself. But he arrives at Azkaban feeling more goodwill toward his father than he has in years, because he appears capable of treating Granger like an actual human. 

Lucius’s hands are shaking, and that’s where the visit falls apart.

“Has that been happening a lot? Do you want me to ask Hermione to take a look?

“I’ve no desire to voluntarily submit to a Muggle exam.” The disdain cuts as sharply as it ever has.

Draco’s first instinct is to defend her competence, though it’s clearly not the issue. “She’s a magical Healer also. And she healed you well enough with Muggle medicine.”

“I’m not insulting her intelligence. Ms. Granger is...pleasant enough. I understand the appeal. You can have some fun with her, Draco, but that’s all it should be.” His father’s expression is unbearable: a combination of timeworn placation and thinly-veiled scorn. 

Draco should have known his optimism was misplaced. Where Lucius is concerned, maintaining low expectations is key to curbing disappointment. 

“You threw _everything_ away over blood purity,” he says, shaking his head. He wants to mention his mother, but it feels too cruel, even as his resentment reaches criticality. “I have a chance to be happy. With a remarkable witch, regardless of blood status. Certainly better than I deserve. Can’t that be enough for you?”

Distress flickers across Lucius’s expression before it settles into familiar impassivity. “Draco,” he says. It looks like he might have something else to say, but he doesn’t speak quickly enough. It should be an easy answer. 

He leaves, and he doesn’t look back when Lucius says his name again.

* * *

Hermione accompanies Draco to Blaise and Neville’s engagement party in early September. She gets on well with everyone, and soon she has an audience of more athletically-inclined guests grilling her about the Quidditch stars she’s worked with.

Draco’s doing fine until he hears someone ask her if she plans on settling down at some point. Until she says, “I think what Blaise and Neville have is lovely. Someone to come home to at night, to count on. I’m in no hurry, but sure, I always envisioned getting married someday.”

He’s short of breath when he corrals Theo and Blaise, and they don’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation.

“What’s wrong with that?” Blaise asks. “It’s an engagement party. People ask things like that. She’s not getting down on one knee.”

“They haven’t been together that long, though,” Theo points out. 

That’s the tip of the iceberg, but Draco will take it. “Yes! Almost no time at all. She probably wants kids too. I don’t know if I even want to get married. I can hardly take care of myself.” Draco runs both hands through his hair. “She’s too good for me. Too nice. Too Gryffindor.”

“I think it’s a nice balance,” says Blaise. “She levels you out.”

“How’s the sex?” asks Theo, narrowing the focus to matters of primary importance. “Is she the best fuck you’ve ever had?”

Draco thinks. “No. It’s great—amazing. She’s fantastic. But there was this one Muggle girl... That’s a problem, right? Why wouldn’t I marry the best?”

“I bet you don’t even know her name,” Blaise says, “or you wouldn’t call her ‘this one Muggle girl.’”

“She also wouldn’t remember you, or whatever she did that you liked,” says Theo. “I knew there was a catch with your Obliviation strategy.”

Draco finds this very unhelpful. Theo’s usefulness has run its course. “What if she was it, though? What if I’m supposed to be with her? What if I’m keeping Hermione from being with some nice, normal coworker, with a father who didn’t try to kill her?” His chest feels constricted and he can’t suck in enough air.

“Draco. Breathe. No one’s saying you have to get married at all, to Hermione or anyone else.” Blaise squeezes his arm. “Stop panicking. You have a good thing with Hermione, and you’re just not used to letting anyone get close. She knows you _and_ your father, and she likes you anyway. Stop letting him be the reason this can’t work.”

* * *

A week later, it doesn’t matter much what Draco’s father thinks of her. There’s another urgent message from Azkaban, only this time Lucius has been found dead in his cell.

Draco drinks himself into a stupor and misses a date with Hermione. When she lets herself into his flat, her capacity for nurturing makes itself evident. She makes him tea, runs him a bath and washes his hair, tucks him in. She curls around him and he clings to her. All he can think about is his last conversation with his father. He feels sick, and while she makes him soup, Draco smokes in the bathroom to calm his nerves.

The next few days pass in a haze. Draco learns the family solicitor had been called to Azkaban the day before Lucius died, and a small but significant change was made to his will: marriage, suitable or otherwise, is no longer a requirement for Draco to inherit. 

The timing is terribly suspicious, given no evident cause of death. Draco tries not to linger on that. It’s been a long time since he had a positive association with being the Malfoy heir, but he recognizes this gesture was probably the closest Lucius would’ve ever gotten to changing his mind about Hermione. Or maybe it was less about her and more of an apology to Draco, in the only way Lucius was capable. Draco tries to appreciate either of those possibilities without feeling the bitterness of regret. He can’t, so he maintains a persistent state of numbness instead in an attempt to avoid thinking about it at all.

Hermione’s by his side for the service, but he goes alone to the manor afterward. He barely remembers the speech he just gave, so he places his memory into the Pensieve in Lucius’s study and watches himself honor his father with a stream of consciousness that’s a pretty fair representation of his feelings.

_“Thank you all for being here. What can I say about my father? Lucius Malfoy wasn’t a good man. He didn’t protect me the way a father should. He was raised to believe some really horrible things, and he handed them down to me like fucked up family heirlooms._

_I hate that the most valuable thing I learned from him is that I’d never parent like him, not that I’m some shining example of someone who should procreate._

_He did teach me how to fly, that’s a good memory. He loved my mother, and I believe he loved me._

_I think he had regrets; by the time he went too far down a path, there was no good way off of it. I wish he’d been able to say that to me._

_I wish making him proud and doing the right things, the things that make me happy, weren’t mutually exclusive. But I’m trying to be someone a father could be proud of, even if he wasn’t always. Or ever, I don’t know._

_I hated him and I loved him and I’m trying to forgive him. If he wronged you, and I’m sure he did, I hope you can come to peace with him too. Thank you for coming.”_

In the Pensieve, it’s obvious how visibly drained, overexposed and raw he’d been after speaking. 

He watches himself lash out at Blaise: _“Now you can stop telling me I don’t have to live up to my father’s expectations, can’t you? Think how much breath you’ll save.”_

He sees Blaise’s stricken face, the clench of his jaw and his refusal to react. Notices Neville’s resolve as he intercedes, wrapping a steadying arm around Blaise, guiding him away. 

He observes Hermione picking that moment, of all moments, to say she really cares about Draco and _loves_ him. Fucking loves him. Like he wasn’t overwhelmed enough. 

He views himself snap at her too, and her apology for the bad timing, and the way she stayed by his side anyway. 

He’d been like an animal in a trap, biting at the hands of people trying to help him. 

Draco pulls away from the memory, returns it with his wand. He collects the crystal peacocks from Lucius’s study, and places them carefully on a windowsill in his flat when he gets home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left; hopefully edited and posted this weekend. Thanks for your thoughts so far. It's a pretty funny movie; I recommend it if you haven't watched. 💚


	3. Chapter 3

It's only been three weeks since his father's death, and Draco’s still walking a tightrope of functionality when Hermione’s benefit dinner rolls around in mid-October. The last thing he wants to do is show up at a Ministry event, but she’s been an unfailing presence for him as he’s navigated his grief. 

He’s thrown himself into writing her article as a distraction, and it’s good. It’s _really_ good. He’s proud of it, and he thinks if it's as popular as Pansy expects, maybe this can be a stepping stone toward doing some more serious writing. 

Hermione looks gorgeous when she collects him for the benefit, and she waits, mostly patiently, while he finishes getting ready. Harry’s surgery is tomorrow, and even though he knows she’s nervous about speaking, she still radiates confidence. Draco wants to make a good impression, and he’s indecisive about his robes until Hermione tells him, “You look very fuckable in that. Come on, let’s go.” An owl from Pansy arrives as they’re leaving, and he shoves it in his pocket so they’re not late.

Showing up on time unfortunately means there’s obligatory mingling before the dinner begins. Everyone’s stiffly polite to Draco with Hermione at his side as a buffer, and he takes advantage of passing trays of wine for social lubrication. When she’s dragged away for “just a moment of her time,” he leans against a pillar outside the ballroom by himself until it’s time to be seated. Potter is to his left. Wonderful. 

He picks at the mediocre food while tuning out verbose spiels from St Mungo’s and Ministry officials. Potter dutifully clears his plate and compliments its contents to no one in particular. 

Finally, Hermione kisses Draco's cheek and steps away to deliver her speech. Draco knows she will be much more compelling than anyone else has been. She has a knack for coming off persuasively plainspoken, accessible in a way that belies her vast knowledge and extensive preparation. 

While he's waiting for her to be introduced, he remembers the parchment from Pansy, and decides to look busy. Maybe Potter will skip the interrogation, or at least give it a rest with his praise for the congealed risotto.

Draco skims the beginning: some insensitive observations about how glad she is that he has _WINK_ as a distraction. Pansy hated Lucius and it’s difficult for her to pretend otherwise. She seems to think Draco should have gotten over it as soon as the service ended. But then she gets to the point:

 **Don’t pout, darling, but I’m cutting the Granger article. I thought the Quidditch would make it more exciting, but she’s still quite swotty, isn’t she? And now that you’re fucking her, there’s no tension anymore. Readers want to believe that she could want to fuck** **_them._ ** **We’re going to go with the piece Theo pitched: a wizard's guide to Muggle porn. I need you to** **—**

Draco crumples up the parchment. The room is spinning and he can’t catch his breath. He drains his wine. At the front of the ballroom, Hermione is starting to speak. She’s beautiful and perfect and so excited for his article and Draco can’t breathe.

“Are you going to drink that?” he asks Potter, gesturing to his wine.

Potter looks at him questioningly. “Uh, yes? Are you feeling okay, Malfoy?” 

Draco loosens his tie, but it’s not enough. He leaves the ballroom as quietly as he can, finds a deserted hallway, and takes a grateful, sucking drag off a joint.

* * *

Hermione’s upset. He can tell. She’s trying not to be, but her irritation is visible as soon as she finds him and casts an air purifying charm in his direction. The argument starts before they leave the Ministry and it continues once they step through the Floo into his flat. 

“I wanted to give that speech to you, Draco," she says, pulling off her heels and dropping them next to the fireplace. She moves into the bedroom to change into pajamas, and he follows. "I wrote it imagining you listening, knowing I could focus on you. I know you’re not in the best place right now, but you couldn’t make it through one dinner—one _important_ dinner—for me? Without escaping to get high? Inside the _Ministry,_ for Merlin’s sake.” 

Draco understands why she’s upset, but her reaction seems a little excessive. He defends himself as he changes into his own pajama bottoms. “This wasn’t about Lucius. It was an owl from Pansy. It was work-related.”

“That's part of the problem! It was disrespectful to be reading work memos during my speech.” 

“It wasn’t _during,”_ Draco says, “it was before, while you left me to the wolves.” 

“Harry is hardly a wolf. He likes you." She sends her dress robes to the closet with an irritated wave of her hand.

“Oh yes, so much that he asked if I’m trying to trap you into bearing an heir for me.”

“That’s—Draco, that’s ridiculous. There’s got to be a miscommunication there. I’ll talk to him.”

“Fine. I’m just mental, right? This is probably where you should just leave and we won't talk for awhile.” He walks into the bathroom and starts brushing his teeth. Fucking Hermione and her stupid Muggle toothbrushing hygiene that's so much mintier than a charm.

She follows him, explaining that just because they’re having an argument doesn’t mean that things are over. Apparently all couples have disagreements, and they just have to work through them. 

Draco spits toothpaste into the sink and rinses his mouth, interrupting her lecture about healthy communication. “How did we even end up together? Why do you even want to be with me?”

“I fell in love with you,” she says. Like that makes perfect sense. 

“Why? What's wrong with you"—he waves a hand in her general direction as he brushes past her to the living room—"that makes _you_ want to be with _me?"_

“I'm mad about you! I love your prickly personality. You’re very intelligent. You care deeply for the people who are important to you. You were raised to hate someone like me, and look where we are now." Her voice softens, and she sits down next to him on the sofa. "I really like who you are, Draco.”

Clearly she's still looking past bigger issues. “I drink a lot. I smoke a lot, too. I think I use it as a coping mechanism sometimes.”

“I don’t care," she shrugs. He gives her a look and she continues. "I mean, of course I _care._ I’d be glad to help you find someone to discuss that with, if you feel it’s unhealthy. But it doesn’t make me not want to be with you.”

He crosses his arms. “I’ve fucked a lot of other people.”

“Your sexual history doesn’t bother me.” She stares at him for a beat. “How many’s a lot?”

“Couldn’t tell you. A _lot._ They weren’t all women, either.” He feels a sick satisfaction, finally discovering a crack in this steadfast insistence that nothing he’s done matters.

“I don’t care about that. Merlin, Draco, I dated Penelope Clearwater for six months. You know that. Why would you think your sexual orientation is a problem for me?”

“Maybe you’re a hypocrite. It’s a double standard. Two cunts together are hot, but two cocks are disgusting.”

“Two cocks are _not_ disgusting. They’re just as lovely as two cunts.”

“Well, maybe you don’t care about that, but you do care about the number. How many people have you shagged?”

Six. She’s slept with six people. She can count them on her fingers. Draco’s head spins trying to think of how he could begin to approximate the number of people he’s slept with, even though she apologizes for asking and says it truly doesn’t matter to her. “I don’t care about your past, Draco.”

They go round and round, and Draco knows he’s being irrational for much of it. At one point, he says he’s tired, but Hermione doesn’t want to go to bed angry. This gives him renewed energy.

“You go down on me too much,” he accuses, “which is actually selfish, because you do it so you can feel generous."

“What?” she asks. “Too much? What’s that mean? You want me to stop going down on you?”

“No! No. Don’t try to—just forget that. Of _course_ I want you to go down on me. But,” he points a finger in the air, triumphantly zeroing in on a new argument, “I’m too depraved for you. Admit it. You don’t like things as dirty as I do.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m perfectly open-minded. I like lots of things.”

“Really,” he says. “You have no idea the things I would do to you. Like right now, I'd take you in the bedroom and I’d kiss your neck, right here.” He points to the most delicate, sensitive spot on his own neck. “Right here where you can’t stand it, because it feels so fucking good. Not the kind of gentle mouthing that makes your toes curl because you're aching for more, but you don't want me to leave a mark you might forget to heal. No, I'd suck hard, leaving a pretty, deep purple bruise. Just because I could. Because you’d let me defile you, if you were as dirty as I am. And I’d suck and bite those marks all the way down your body until you _begged_ me to get you off.”

He has her full attention and for once this evening, she doesn't have an immediate response. Pleased, he continues.

“Then I’d flip you over, and arrange you just how I wanted you. On your hands and knees, spread open for me. I’d tease you some more, but you'd be dripping for it, and I wouldn't be able to resist dragging my tongue through the evidence of just how much you want me. My face would be a filthy mess. But I wouldn’t stop at your clit, or your sweet cunt. God, I love your cunt. No, I’d lick all the way up to your arsehole and taste you there too.”

Hermione stares at him, wide-eyed, pupils dilated. She swallows, chest heaving, but he's really hitting his stride now.

“And I don’t mean, like, I’d just give it a quick little lick just to say that’s something I do. Oh, no. No, no, no.” He puts a hand up, shaking his head slightly. “I’d lick _into_ you, working your arse open with my tongue until you relaxed into it and let me inside. I'd nibble at you with my teeth and fuck into you with my tongue, until you’d practically be crying for me to make you come. You'd be so desperate for me to touch your clit again. But I would keep at it because I'd like hearing you fall apart and beg like that.”

Hermione’s bottom lip is white from the pressure of her teeth biting into it.

“And then I’d put a finger inside your arse instead, and lick your clit with just the pressure you like. You'd be making my favorite noises, the breathy little gasps, like you can't get enough air? I’d have brought you to the edge, and it wouldn’t take long at all before I’d suck at your clit, and you'd come so hard, your whole body would be shaking. And as soon as you came, I’d slide into you. Not gently, not slow." He shakes his head again, holding her gaze. "No. I wouldn’t need to be gentle, because you’d be so fucking drenched. And I’d feel you riding it out, clenching around me, cock and finger, both holes filled at the same time.”

“Merlin,” she whispers.

“I’m not done.” 

She grips the arm of the couch and just keeps staring at him with those huge, blown-pupil eyes. 

“It wouldn’t take me long, either, and after I came in you, you’d be so tired and relaxed, you’d just want to sink down into the bed. But I’d keep those hips up, Granger. I’d watch my come spill out of you, and then I’d dip my thumb into it. Spread it up over your arsehole. I’d lick you all over again, tasting you _and_ my come this time. You’d be so sensitive, trying to tell me you couldn’t possibly come again, clenching your thighs shut. So I’d ask you—do you have a safeword, Granger? We haven’t used one yet.”

It takes her a moment to understand she’s meant to respond, and she's breathless when she does. “Um. Divination.”

Draco doesn't dare smile at that. “I’d say, ‘Use your safeword if you really want me to stop. Otherwise, keep your knees spread like a good girl, or I’ll tie them apart for you.’”

She whimpers, a tiny choked sob from the back of her throat.

“Then I’d make you come again, bucking against my face. Probably tied up, right? You are a very good girl, but I don’t think you could keep your legs spread for that. I know you like to try to suffocate me with your lovely thighs. And after that, you’d be so absolutely blissed out and well-fucked, I’d take you in your arse next." He's dreamed of this but never dared broach the subject. "I’d work you open again, and you'd just take it. You'd be exhausted, face pressed against the pillow, sticky and wet, hips up for me to do whatever I wanted. I’d come inside your arse, too. You’d be—Merlin, you’d be such a pretty fucking mess, Granger. I’d lick you clean all over again, not hard this time, gentle, because you’d still be over-sensitive. Then—then, Granger...I’d let you loose and crawl up your body and I’d kiss you with my filthy, sticky, debauched mouth. Make you just as messy as me.”

She exhales so loudly, he wonders if she's been holding her breath.

“See? See what I would do to you?” He holds his hands wide, palms up, a helpless gesture. “That’s not Hermione Granger sex. That’s not the perfectly hot, mostly vanilla sex we’ve been having. It’s not wholesome. It’s—it’s _lewd.”_

It’s a good hour before Hermione’s shown him just how willingly unwholesome she can be. 

He's stretched out next to her, half pleased with himself, and half reconciling the fact that wanting to marry the best fuck he's ever had is no longer a disqualifier when it comes to Hermione.

“Fuck," she says, voice muffled against his pillow, facedown and boneless. “I’m so glad we’re done fighting.”

Draco looks at her in disbelief. “What? We haven’t resolved anything!”

Hermione’s out of steam, practically asleep, but Draco’s high on adrenaline. “Wake up,” he says. “I'm going to make tea. I’m at a crossroads in my life and I could go in a lot of directions. We need to figure some things out."

* * *

When Draco wakes up, it’s to the sound of a door slamming. He thinks maybe Hermione’s leaving for work, but it appears she’s actually coming back.

Hermione looks very upset. And _tired._ Her eyes are bloodshot, her hair is a disaster, and she’s glaring at him.

“Did the surgery go well?” he asks, sitting up in a pile of blankets. “How's Potter?”

She slams her purse down on the counter. “The surgery was _cancelled,_ Draco. I tried to prep _the wrong hip._ Because I got _no sleep._ Harry—my best friend, who trusts me completely—got out of bed, already numbed, and fell over trying to escape from me. So no, the surgery did not _go well.”_

Fuck. “Could you not just take Pepper-Up?” 

She looks at him in disbelief. “No! I have to be well-rested and clear-headed to cut into someone. I can fuck up someone’s life if I make a mistake. I can’t operate on stimulants or self-medicate myself into functionality.”

Draco reels from that. “Well, I’m sorry my job is not as important as yours.”

Hermione swipes a palm down her face and gives a frustrated groan. “This is not about your job or its relative importance to mine. If you’re happy with it, that’s all that matters to me. And I don’t—in theory—care that you drink or smoke marijuana or that you’ve slept with a lot of people of varied gender identity. You keep assuming I’m judging you for all of that, but I never have, and I won't. Even if you decide some of those behaviors have become problematic and you want to make some changes.” She takes a deep breath. “But right now I feel like you are making some choices that are not taking me into consideration as an important part of your life. That negatively affected me today.” 

This is it. She’s realized, finally, that Draco is not good for her. Truly surprising it’s taken this long. “I told you, right? I tried to tell you last night. All the reasons I’m not right for you.”

“You know that’s not how I feel! I see something wonderful with you, but I need to know if I’m wasting my time because you’ll never believe me.” She gives an exhausted sigh. “Look, Harry’s surgery was rescheduled for two days from now. I need to get some rest, get focused, and take care of my friend. Then we can sit down and straighten things out.”

Draco’s walls are already up, self-preservation instinct in place. “It’s not necessary, really. This has probably run its course. That’s okay, because Pansy says the article’s not going to happen. What you do isn’t interesting enough. So you don’t have to pretend like this could ever work anymore.” 

Hermione clenches her purse in her fist. Her reddened eyes look so dejected, Draco can hardly bear it. 

“I can't make you fight for something you won’t let yourself have.” She walks to the door, pauses, then steps through and closes it gently behind her. 

Draco knows he's just thrown the most positive thing in his life away with both hands. It feels very on-brand. He can’t have nice things. 

He pulls the covers back over himself and cries for the first time since his mother died.

* * *

In hindsight, Draco supposes his mother’s death was really a breaking point for him. He experienced his fair share of horrific events leading up to the war and throughout its aftermath. The Mind Healer calls it trauma, though he’s not sure that sufficiently captures watching a massive snake consume one of his professors or a classmate tortured on his floor. 

Through it all, Draco gritted his teeth and did what he had to. He’d held everything together and functioned for Narcissa. But with Lucius in Azkaban and his mother gone, Draco had no one left he cared to please, and plenty of _trauma_ he’d never processed. He explored no shortage of pleasantly distracting and numbing diversions to avoid it. 

He makes no apology for the things he did after his mother’s death—other than the liberal use of _Obliviate,_ which is a little dodgy. No one ever taught him how to name his feelings, let alone handle them in a healthy way, so he rather thinks he could have done worse.

Losing Hermione is another breaking point. She’s not gone in the same way Narcissa is, though, and Draco’s going to handle things differently this time. 

He wishes he could say he came to that wise decision right away. 

It does take one more ill-advised, pissed night in a Muggle club, a few nights after she walked out of his flat. Draco almost takes a very keen girl home. She calls him Daddy. That isn’t really his thing, but he’s willing to ignore it until someone—her brother, presumably—shoves him hard and asks if he has a habit of pulling 16-year-olds. 

Losing Hermione inspires him to want to make some changes, but the night at the Muggle club is the rock bottom he needs to hit in order to take action. He may never get Hermione back, but there are things he needs to do—and not do, like chatting up underage girls—for himself anyway.

He quits his job first, the day after the debacle in the club. It’s the easiest of all the changes to come. 

“Thank fuck,” Pansy says. “Your head’s not been in the game, and now you won’t fuss over Theo getting the editor position.” 

He’s genuinely happy for Theo, who seems relieved that they won’t be fighting over articles like _Titillating Trysts: Wizarding London Sex Spots You’ve Never Tried._

Next he visits Blaise, and gives him an overdue apology for making him a target of Draco’s grief. Apparently, Longbottom heard from Potter that Hermione misses Draco terribly. “She’s as pitiful as you,” Blaise says, “and that’s even got the Savior in your corner. He told Granger she’s a fool if she lets you push her away.” 

Hearing this does allow him to tend a tiny flame of hope that all might not be lost, but he’s not ready to reach out to her yet. 

Draco can’t decide whether to cleanse his flat of most of his “self-medication,” as Hermione had put it, before or after his appointment with the Mind Healer. If he leaves it, the stress of the appointment might tempt him to take the edge off, so he makes a thorough sweep before. Draco’s not planning on complete sobriety, but he wants his usage not to be a coping mechanism.

The appointment is stressful. Harder than he expected. He wishes he could say it makes him feel really good to go, but sharing with a stranger spikes his anxiety extraordinarily high. Nothing—not Voldemort, not losing his mother, nothing—has ever pushed him into the supremely uncomfortable space of seeking out a professional and confessing his innermost thoughts. But talking with someone removed from his situation does leave him feeling lighter after the first visit, and after the second, he has a few tools (mindfulness and journaling) he knows he can try. He vows to do it, even if he takes some time to decide if he wants to continue actually speaking with the Mind Healer.

The journaling inspires him to lean further into something he’s already decided. He’s going to write his story. It feels a bit pretentious to Draco to call it a memoir, but he’s been through a lot, and he thinks it’s compelling. He thinks people might actually want to read it. Putting the words to parchment is cathartic and it reminds him how far he’s come. 

Pansy connects him with a publisher who salivates at the prospect of a Malfoy tell-all, and the words flow freely. Draco spends two months pouring his time into writing and editing, and Blaise is the only person he allows to see it. It’s a bit paralyzing to share with anyone, let alone the world, but he trusts Blaise to give an honest opinion and call him on anything that doesn’t ring true.

He has drinks with his friends occasionally. For Blaise’s sake, he even enjoys a bizarrely profound night alone with Longbottom, who shares a little of his most prized hybrid strain. “I’m not worth twelve of you anymore, Malfoy,” Neville says. “Maybe just seven or eight. Point being, you have a shot with her.” 

Draco considers these evenings recreational and indulgent. He also doesn’t have even the slightest desire to fuck anyone else, let alone a stranger. There’s no reliance on any substances or distractions as he confronts his past, and the act of putting the words down is therapeutic enough. It feels a bit like drawing his worst memories out to view in a Pensieve, but leaving them on the parchment somehow takes the most dangerous edges off of what’s left in his mind. 

Being the Malfoy heir came with unhealthy expectations, but there’s no one left holding him to them. He gets to define what being a Malfoy means. Maybe some other purebloods of his generation will relate to what he has to say. 

Even though he’s going to share it with the world, he’s writing for an audience of one. 

Writing is what gets him through those months, because whenever he’s not, he feels intensely lonely and without distraction. Everything reminds him of Hermione.

* * *

It feels awful not to see her during the holidays. It’s still not time, but Draco does get to send her something for Christmas. The card he includes with an advance copy of his book is simple. 

**Flourish and Blotts, 8 pm, 12 January. Please come.**

The book dedication contains a few more words, but still not everything he needs to say: _For Hermione, who sees who I am, and not who I was._

The book signing is actually at 6:00, but he wants her there when it’s wrapping up, so maybe they can talk. It’s cleared out by the time she walks through the door, with his words clutched tightly to her chest and a smile that chases away the loneliness he’s been feeling. 

“Hey,” she says, stepping in front of the table he’s been seated at for the last couple of hours, signing until his hand aches. “This is—Draco, this is amazing and I want to talk about your book, but I just really need to tell you I’ve missed you. You look wonderful.”

“I missed you too. So much.” He told himself he would be calm and collected if she came, but his heart is fluttering as he gets up and rounds the table. “I’ve been working really hard at what you said, you know. About letting myself have things I want. I saw a Mind Healer.”

“I’m really proud of you.” Her eyes are so full of fondness, it makes him feel a little choked up. 

“I smoke a lot less, too.” 

She laughs and the sound is thick, caught in her throat. “A healthy amount, I’m sure. No—I hoped you would reach out. I wanted to, but I wanted you to believe you deserved this.”

“I’m working on that. But I don’t think I’ll sabotage it anymore.” No one has ever looked so gorgeous. She’s so brilliant and genuine and forgiving. She’s here. He won’t let himself fuck it up again. “I love you, Hermione.”

She steps into his space, her arm holding his book the only thing between them. “Yeah? I love you, too. Never stopped.”

Kissing her is such a relief. There was such a real chance he’d never get to do it again. He sinks his hands into her hair, holding her close and hoping she feels a fraction of the emotion he does. He tries to tell her how important she is with his kiss, but there’s so much he wants to say out loud as well. 

“I’ve been cleaning out the manor, but I don’t really know what for. Will you help me figure out what to do with it?” He pauses to press his lips to hers again, shamelessly giddy with her nearness. “I want something good to happen there. I want try to make amends for the things that happened there.”

She nods against him and presses her forehead into his chest, exhaling shakily. “Yes. I can think of some ideas.”

 _“_ Also, _Witch Weekly_ wants to publish my article about you, if you still want to,” he rambles. “It ended up having more of a badass, empowered female Healer focus. A little side of ‘reformed fuckup classmate becomes helplessly smitten.’ Just a little different direction than _WINK_ wanted to go.”

She curls her fingers into his shirt. “I love this expressive side of you, Draco. We will continue these conversations,” she says, lips brushing his ear, breath deliciously warm against his neck. "Right now, will you please just take me home and say some less wholesome things?”

Just like that, Draco knows his life has never been more on track.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it! Thank you for reading my take on Dramione meets Trainwreck. Sorry not sorry for hundreds of words of filthy talk in the last chapter—I deeply regretted not being able to work in John Cena’s character, and greatly enjoy Dramione smut, so this is my homage to his character’s struggles with talking dirty in the film. 
> 
> Thanks to [ NuclearNik ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuclearNik) and [QuinTalon ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuinTalon) for putting on such an amazing RomCom Fest. Don’t forget to check out the other works! And a big thank you to [ dreamsofdramione ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugggghead/pseuds/dreamsofdramione)for the beautiful graphic. 💚


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